


interlude

by hikarusulu



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Happy Ending tho, M/M, Slice of Life, a lot of allegories, i read annihilation and tsoa and this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 06:36:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17278916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikarusulu/pseuds/hikarusulu
Summary: Spock and Jim travel to Osaka.





	interlude

Jim has his mouth stuffed with _tako tamago_.

He always does that — fills himself with more than what everyone thinks he can take. His insolence and arrogance are obscene, people say, and they gape at him wherever he goes until they’re proven wrong. Deep down, these words thrown at him carelessly may have a trace of truth, with his virtues twisted into derogatory qualities. It’s a matter of perspective, Spock thinks. Jim, however, has never given up, and if he starts something it’s because he can finish it; and that’s definitive. Spock knows, he’s been through this whole process once when all he knew about him was his last name and a tainted record.

Jim hums in appreciation, wiggling rapidly the octopus on a stick before Spock’s eyes, not trying to provoke his own dietary choices, only sharing his plain satisfaction. Spock lets his lips curve upward just a little bit, to let him know.

“It’s good.” He concludes to himself, still chewing. Jim steps sideways up to him, linking their arms together tightly to avoid getting separated by the wave of people approaching them. It’s a busy street market on a crowded night in Osaka and Jim loves the turmoil as fiercely as he enjoys the soundless american countryside and its miles of nothing but cornfields. There’s almost childlike happiness in his demeanor, weightlessness unsuitable of a man who’s already seen the world burn many times.

This change of mood occurred like shedding skin. Only a few hours ago they were irritated and restless; the type of irritation one gets, for example, when they realize they ran out of their favorite beverage in the morning. It came from the displeasure of a grey, stiff Starfleet uniform, and Spock is yet not sure if what makes him uncomfortable is the itchy fabric or the psychological weight of wearing such attire.

Nevertheless, the cap wasn’t made for vulcan ears — that was enough reason for him to only sigh and  frown when Jim didn’t wait to arrive to his own hotel room before stripping, leaving him to collect the discarded clothes on the floor of the quiet corridor.

The main reason they traveled to the other side of the planet was for a ceremony. Captain and XO were to receive a prestigious award for “respecting civilian rights”, or as Jim had stated bitterly after reading the invitation, for _having uh... fucking common sense, I guess_. It was a shiny little medal pinned onto their chests ritualistically in front of a higher command they’d never seen before. It doesn’t make much of a difference, Spock thinks, for they’re just carriers of a patent bound to clap and cheer at Jim with the same brunt it’ll use, when the time comes... when it becomes convenient, to discard him again.

 

+++

 

_“It feels bad and irrelevant, Spock.” He had sighed. “We go to these places_ — _and I don’t try to be arrogant or condescending, obviously. But you know how hard it is — to fix something you don’t understand. And we don’t… we don’t even stay in the aftermath. It’s kind of arrogant, Spock, but I don’t know what else we should be doing. Then in a sense it’s easy being the middleman, exactly because we don’t live with the consequences. Not the bad ones, not the good ones. The people deserving of anything are the ones who fucking stay,” He’d huffed, throwing his PADD on the bed with little care, “and now you have admiralty thinking life is a fucking arcade game, using death tolls as reward points? Shouldn’t all captains be on this fucking list anyway? How sick is that.” Jim had finished, eyes cast low._

The truth is, Spock understands him deeply. After a while, starry eyed students realize what kind of decision they made when enrolling in Starfleet. Not a thing in this world is sacred or ideal, and like moving to a new house, with time they realize the feeble structures of such an institution: a creaky staircase here, a water leak there. Growing a thick skin is needed if you don’t have the resources to confront this reality, and that’s how most older officers manage to carry on with their duties. Jim, however, is not naive nor passive, but rather a threat to superiors who have a love for traditionalism and self-importance — he bends rules and complains and meticulously pushes his luck just one centimeter before the breaking point. It doesn’t seem like it, but all his risks are calculated in his own way.

Nonetheless, after taking the brunt of an inhuman bureaucracy for five years, Jim was burned out, and that proved to be a problem to himself. His movements were sloppy and his actions no longer leaned on the rational side. He was operating on bitterness of the situations he could’ve not fixed, the cracks on the concrete wall he couldn’t fill. And Spock, ever so patient and loyal, would be there to remind Jim how to be himself again, nudging him back to his course.

_“You are being abrasive,” Spock had answered him candidly when Jim suggested boycotting the service, “anger cannot be justification enough. Did not Leonard advise you just yesterday to-”_

_“Pick my battles or whatever, yes, but-”_

_“This is not the time nor the place for vanity, captain.” Spock had crossed him off quick. He raised his voice slightly on a rare sight, only to lower it a second later, almost to a grave whisper. “We have not gotten our official feedback from the latest mission and causing a fruitless diplomatic incident now could bring you unpleasant consequences.” Spock paused. “It is only a medal, you can take it off later. No one will question your acceptance, but they might feel impotent without your presence. Do not lose your perspective.” With mild exasperation, Spock stared at him to make it clear the discussion had been over. Jim threw himself into the bed_ — _the closest to admitting defeat he would ever get._

Keeping a harsh posture had distressed Spock greatly at the time, however, the bluntness of Jim’s words was too risky to be simply swept aside. Kindness wouldn’t suffice to soothe his rightful resentment; he knew Jim. The captain needed to withstand this misfortune, Spock judged, because he was too estimable to people to commit self sabotage. It wasn’t time for his swan song yet.

In the end, his argument was effective. They didn’t exchange many words for the duration of the event — instead there was eye contact and a hand on the small of Jim’s back, reassuring and warm. The captain absorbed the attention like a sponge, and although he could feel a few questioning glares, no one dared to comment.

 

+++

 

Spock finds gratifying to see how much Jim likes it here, now that the ceremony is over.

 

Every surface on the street market is gleaming from water that rained a while ago. There’s droplets dripping on the food booths and dirty puddles on the ground they step. Jim’s face is wet, too, from looking upwards every few minutes, entranced by the neon lights. They aren’t sagacious poems or useful reminders, but ads for dentists, cheap restaurants, miscellaneous stores and palm reading sessions coming in various colors, languages and states of deterioration.  Jim’s face is painted with the lights, all dancing across his skin and changing every few meters he walks.

It’s not Jim’s first time in Osaka. He tells Spock he’s traveled here once with friends, when he was only a student.  But they’d spent most of their trip inside nightclubs, and nightclubs are atemporal and impersonal, devoid of tangibility, he explains. There’s no difference between the brazilian and finnish ones, for example — except, perhaps, the music choice. He couldn’t see people’s faces clearly nor smell the street air, everything had been a drunk blur and the minimal pang of regret of not exploring Osaka only appeared the day after, when he gave his farewell to the city through the small shuttle window, on their way back to San Francisco.

“This is the real deal,” Jim sighs. “It’s not that I entirely regret how I used to be,” he continues in between bites of food, “maybe this is just part of personal growth. I hated the first time I took a sip of beer. Too bitter. Do vulcans-?”  Jim stares at his profile and Spock nods.

“Yonsavas are often quite distasteful for vulcan children.”

“Right.” He nods enthusiastically, “You evolve and crave different things. We’ve learned for five straight years and it was beautiful and substantial and now I earn these experiences, I think-” Jim pauses on track to sniffle dramatically, “-take this fish smell, for example. Today they’re more meaningful and enticing to me than getting shitfaced and waking up in a stranger’s bed.” There’s a slight frown on his face. “I do miss the thrill, though.”

Spock hums, attentive. What he doesn’t say is that Jim hasn’t learned for five years, but for a lifetime.

Instead, he offers: “Perhaps you are improving at self discovery.”

“I guess so.” Jim nods.

“And this is indeed a peculiar place. When you told me yesterday that, I quote, ‘the older this city gets the sharper it becomes’... initially I was quite confused,” Spock confesses, dragging him to the side in order to avoid a puddle. Jim stops between steps.

“Ah. It’s ok, Spock. Maybe I was too metaphorical.” He answers in a rush, wincing like he was a child who’d been caught misbehaving.

“You were, but I do read poetry.” Jim snorts.  “I comprehend it now, Jim.”

He just needed a push — a sight, in this case, to understand.

He recalls reading a tourism pamphlet about the history of the market: there had been a time which the main avenue prevailed under a high opaque canopy sandwiched between the buildings on both sides. On an ordinary day, as most stories go, a large auto piloted shuttle happened to crash against the coverage, injuring several people. Luckily nobody died, but the roof, for its part, got utterly destroyed. The remaining structures and debris were removed and cleared, meanwhile the administration promptly promised to fix it as soon as possible. The underlying issue is that Osaka had been for at least a decade dominated by concealed political corruption, which often led to delay and false promises. Naturally, decades  passed, yet no attempt was made to rebuild it. The complaints were scattered across the years and it wasn’t until the election of a new administration that everything changed. They promised to recover the days before fraudulency, and older people, the generation who still remembered the canopy, became very adamant about its construction — a symbolic gesture appreciated by those who longed for ancient times with deceiving nostalgia — golden ages always belong in the past, after all.

Soon enough the canopy was rebuilt, an exact copy of the original one, and soon enough the administration also proved its nastiness. The seemingly harmless nostalgia was nothing but a dress up for xenophobia and retrogression, unfitting for a city that honored its multifaceted culture. The people who frowned upon such an outdated ideology outnumbered those in support, and slowly, unconsciously, the canopy ceased to be a symbol of pride.  It did not take a week after an historical impeachment for the vendors and clients to start missing the blue sky and the unfiltered, prickling sun across their skins. _The weather was not the same as 50 years ago_ , they would justify, _it’s doesn’t rain as much._

Glancing at the protest pictures, Spock could see the frenzy. The main avenue had not been made to fit that many people, yet they were there, advocating for a roofless market as if they had not been, for decades, craving the opposite.

Jim wouldn’t be wet, shining in a shower of neon lights if the tenacious girl who sold _The Most Succulent Peaches in Southern Osaka_ wouldn’t have marked her presence, standing at the front, with a scowl on her face, gripping a political sign for dear life. She must haven’t known she would end up being the face of a chapter in this city’s history.

But this tale isn’t about politics or ceilings. It’s about the structures of present reality being made of past accomplishments, mistakes and every single incident, inconsequential or not. It’s, perhaps, a manifest against traditionalism, an agenda so concerned in not erasing history it freezes in time, forever unchanging. When Jim says the city becomes _sharp_ the older it gets, it’s because Osaka refutes a round past — it thrives in chaos and in fact, it _is_ chaos. It is the continuous changes that fastly becomes familiar, it is the market with one thousand different faces. Maybe the city would’ve been fading into its own austerity if the canopy had still been there, if people hadn’t been bothered enough. But he doesn’t need to wonder about other realities, Spock thinks — and Jim is right there with stars in his eyes — , when the one he lives in has Osaka evolving and coming back to itself at every moment, always making history.

He feels like he had just experienced _déjà vu._

 

+++

 

As he lays down on the hotel bed (too soft for his own taste, he has the impression it could swallow him whole) with his intertwined across his stomach, he realizes he can’t stop thinking about this place. Or he can’t stop thinking about Jim, he’s not sure yet.

 

+++

 

The constellations are hidden behind a thick mass of clouds — they reflect a scintillant city and light drizzle is to be expected for the whole week, as stated in the weather app. While the majority of people outside protect themselves with plastic capes or colorful umbrellas, others forget both and run towards any place with a roof, in hopes of staying dry.  Spock, for his part, chooses to wear a clear cape above his thermal shirts to stroll more freely. The captain doesn’t bother.

“Tell me, Spock,” Jim calls for him in a drawl, as if trying to contain his excitement, “are you feeling this?”. And if he doesn’t specify what exactly is the feeling he’s talking about, it’s because Spock should’ve known the answer.

It seems that he has regained his confidence to speak in riddles after yesterday. These bolts of explicit insecurity never last for too long, especially when he’s too excited. It’s peculiar, though, because Spock doesn’t assume this is just Jim being himself. Something significant must be happening with the captain and he doesn’t know what exactly it is, but he speculates it has to do with this city.

His head feels a little hazy and he’s antsy. He is a scientist and his job is to solve questions but looking for explanations inside a petri dish is different than whatever this is. He’s not angry at Jim, and normally he would indulge him without any negative thoughts, but he has a burning sensation in his chest that tells him he’s missing something and this is not the type of task you can solve systematically. He will never have resolution if he asks Jim.

Spock looks for it.

Between Jim’s stiff fingers against the glass railing and his feature filled by a kind of reverence he saves for rare moments: he remembers this same face two years ago when Jim was on the outskirt of the universe, a thin sheet of synthetic fabric and a helmet being the only layer separating him from old oxygen responsible for the head horse nebula, one of the greatest masterpieces he’d ever seen; or barely six months ago in that welcome ritual that had touched Jim immensely and he didn’t even know why, but his feet over the cold dirt and the soft hands of the alien holding his bought him a kind of peace he’d never thought he’d find. It was all in his eyes and Spock always observed him, diligent, side to side.

He eyes around. They linger on the observation deck of one of the biggest buildings in Osaka. A very tall public building destined to cultural events, and inside it’s buzzy and colorful. There’s people (the majority of them young) using the energy of ideas to run through thin corridors with manifests in hands, elders hastening their paces for sewing classes, workers sat by the corners wearing wrinkly uniforms after a long day of work,  everything accompanied by the constant strong smell of spices coming from a few kitchen workshops. All this effervescent world, encapsulated in a sober and impersonal mirrored façade.

The contradiction of the metropolis finds itself here, he thinks. It’s no longer possible to observe nor hear the ant farm under them. The deck remains scarily quiet, save for the water droplets shocking against various superficies.  The only close source of heat is the captain’s. But there is, despite everything, abundance of life — pulsing lives in the busy, bright and anil blue night. The urban machinery works normally.

If he approaches the glass railing he can see the railway piercing through the building in a sinuous curve. The cars don’t stop coming in purple flashing lights, fogged by the rain and the atmospheric pollution. Spock, in a fit of futility, tries to count the amount of vehicles passing by, but they prove to be too numerous even for a mind accustomed to onerous challenges.

He closes the distance between his captain by centimeters. In this position he manages to see better the puff of condensation coming out of Jim’s mouth and the times he tries to curl himself inside layers of clothing to shield himself from the harsh and sudden wind. Spock lies his glove covered hands on the top of the railing and flinches a little, it’s wet and he gets briefly upset by his lack of attention.

Jim also seems to be lost inside his own thoughts, forgotten of his question. His forehead is free of wrinkles of worry, and the previous excitement has been slowly turned into  serenity. Starfleet suddenly seems to be miles away. It reminds him of last night, when Jim was acting too carefree, too much like he was only a young man enjoying some free time.

 

++++

 

Liminality is the specific sensation of transition between two possible states of reality. Like water in the process of melting that can’t decide between remaining solely liquid or solid, uncomfortably rejecting the fetish our universe would have, were it conscious, by the binary. The unforeseen espacial ambiguity causes, perhaps, confusion that could be interpreted variably depending of its receptor.

An hour passes by and they’re still on the top of the building.

This place obviously represents liminality, Spock concludes. The ghost of life impregnates the whole area, despite empty — it feels like gazing at Earth through a small aperture of Space Station One; you could never guess how almost sentient the planet is. At the floors below and the railway (another liminal space) in front of them, thousands of people continue with their daily tasks indifferently of their voyeurism. They observe everything from afar but still attentively like Big Brother, and he guesses it would be easy to believe the world is at your palms, yielding. The truth is that this hypothetical scenario doesn’t empower him, and he doubts the captain would feel differently as well.

Maybe this is the explanation —- maybe Jim unknowingly identifies himself with the feeling of transition because it’s a synthesis of his own existence. He was born between life and death, explosions of spaceships as celebratory fireworks. If he believed in destiny, he would say that the universe would’ve written one for Jim, with no adaptations or accommodations, in which he was bound to die without reaching the next state. It is not something all that bad, it just implies that his captain is a pioneer and represents change.

People like him have fast and messy lives, just like the vehicles that pass by in the railway. You simply cannot stop them for the journey is their homes — between the stars is where Jim feels more comfortable. A sudden need of protecting Jim invades his chest, and then.

He finally understands everything.

He thinks indeed, that all that scenery is captivating. But personally, for Spock, even more magnetic is observing kin recognizing kin. He doesn’t know if Jim has any idea of what’s been happening since he arrived Osaka, or if he actually knows the answer to his question. But Spock understands that this is a special moment, comparable to the alien rituals and first encounters that they’ve been living on the daily. They’re barriers he breaks, experiences he collects, because only then he maintains himself constantly on the edge.

Spock nods at nowhere, trying to control the muscle that keeps trying to make him smile. He fails, but it’s not as if he cares that much. He invites himself inside Jim’s atmosphere, inside his liminality. There, the responsibility of existence becomes less of a burden, between the planes of reality. That gives him the excuse of relaxing his posture.

… and slide his pinky finger until he touches the captain’s.

Jim knows that this is his reply. A grin of satisfaction invades his face and there’s laugh wrinkles adorning around his eyes.

“Thanks.” He says, relief in his voice.

_Jim,_ he thinks, _for what you have done and will do, thanks are redundant._

**Author's Note:**

> this is like less than 4k but it means a lot to me even if its messy. ive been a star trek fan since 2013 and im still kind of grieving the fact that aos is like... dead. this is my reminder of why i love these characters so much.  
> the song of achilles and annihilation were unconsciously my inspiration to this story. i really like to idolize jim lol and i enjoy places as characters.
> 
> tell me what u think of it. its not betaed and english isnt my native language so if u see any mistakes feel free to tell me! thanks a lot!
> 
> im @plomeek on twitter :)


End file.
